It'll All Work Out in the End
by UnnamedElement
Summary: Complete. Previously Reflections in a Dirty World. Mark's having a difficult time accepting Roger's unexpected death, until a certain philosopher, a roomful of students, and the memory of a friend help him to move on.
1. March 21st, 8:35 AM, EST

Warnings: Language

Author's Note: My first RENTfic. Also, excuse the lack of ruler lines, please.

Special Thanks: To my best friend "Roger" for proofreading and checking characterizations.

Disclaimer: I don't own Jonathan Larson's work, Neil Young's or Michael Stipe's lyrics. The only person I own is Jason. And the kid who flips the light switch.

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"March twenty-first, 8:35 AM, Eastern Standard Time. I prepare for my class, _Exploring Film and Literature_. Jason's coming early, at 9:00, today to talk about his last paper; worried about a B or something. I told the class that we would begin their next project in class today, show film samples and discuss creative writing techniques with which we could further improve the film. They like hands-on stuff. And I, well, I like. . . Narrating to empty classrooms without my camera on. The thirty year old, new professor alone in his classroom—"

I stop narrating, beginning to feel insanely, madly foolish, and start looking through the box I've pulled out. It's been a hard week and I suppose I'm just gonna wing it in class today. Sometimes I think it's great that I can randomly pull out a reel and twist it to fit my agenda, and other days I remember what Roger said and feel kind of sick inside.

These are old reels. Not "old," but still _old_. They're from the life I had before everything. . . happened. But I can't change that now, can I?

_The flash of a distant camera reconnecting thoughts and actions, Fragments of our missing dreams, Pieces from here and there fall in place along the line, disappearing between you and me._

I'm listening to Neil Young today, even though Roger _hated_ Neil Young. I can't remember why. It's just one of his quirks, I guess. He was okay with REM. Not great, but okay, so I'll put that in instead. Yeah, I'll put that in instead.

So the film reels. . . They're in an unlabeled box (unless you count a girlish print across the front that declares "Mark's Love Interest Lives Here") with stains on it, most likely Collins' coffee or Stoli or something. I assume it's from the Boho days, since I don't use dilapidated boxes with friendly taunts scrawled on them so much anymore. The reels are labeled, though. Perfectly cut masking tape pieces scrawled on in my messy handwriting. I reach in and pull out a random reel.

_Mimi Teaches the Boho Boys to Cook._ Damn, that had been fun. We didn't have enough ingredients (but if you needed off-brand cereal, we had you covered), so there was no way it could even turn out decently. We watered down the milk and then Roger burned the. . . Anyway.

Reel # Two: _Why Roger is A Musician and Not a Filmmaker_, _7/17/94_. Oh, he could handle a camera, sure, but his interview questions. . . Well, he'd scared some poor old man shitless with his absurd inquiries. Maybe I'll show it to the students someday for kicks.

_Thursday: Voicemail #7 from Mother._ She must have been lonely or something. Hey, kids! Don't let your father disown you, because then you mother won't get off your back. She'll call in the middle of June to say "Happy Hanukah!"

I reach back into the box. Hm, what's this? _3/21/91._ Odd, only a date. I don't remember labeling this. I don't remember anything special about this date either. The voice of REM's Michael Stipe cuts through my thoughts.

_Sometimes everything is wrong. Now it's time to sing along.When you day is night alone, If you feel like letting go. When you think you've had too much of this life, well hang on._

_Everybody hurts. Take comfort in your friends. Everybody hurts. Don't throw your hand. Oh, no. Don't throw your hand. If you feel like you're alone, no, no, no, you are not alone._

I look down at the reel again and feel an uncharacteristic anger rising. I haven't felt this angry—or this anything, besides lost—in a very long time, even since Roger. . . I recognize the date now. I'd filmed this two weeks before Mimi's death. I practically growl, but decide that throwing the film at the boom box won't solve anything. I roughly feed the film into the projector, vaguely wondering if Stipe had any idea what the hell he was talking about. I guess I'll just have to find out what exactly _3/21/91_ is, and hope Jason doesn't show up earlier than he's supposed to.

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"_March twenty-first, 9:03PM, Eastern Standard Time. It's game night here in the loft because we have Chinese take-out (thanks to Collins, the Food Emporium ATM, Angel and the code), but mostly because we're freezing our asses off," Mark says, walking closer to the illegal wood-burning stove and the array of bodies and board games strew across the center of the room. He accidentally leaves the projector on, playing a stream of images behind the friends._

_Joanne looks up toward Mark from her comfortable position beside—no, on top of—Maureen. "You know, I told you guys you were free to crash at our place for a while until it warms up or the heat kicks back on. Now that Dad knows precisely where I am, he'll pay for anything." She winks._

"_Distraction works just as well as heat and comfort, Jo," Collins says, raising a glass of Absolut toward the camera, rolling a die, and whooping in triumph. "And if we look at this from a philosophical standpoint, we're set."_

"_What? Trust, love, true devotion? Friendship?" She asks, raising an eyebrow._

_He laughs, pouring himself another shot, "No, my dear lawyer, good vodka."_

_Mimi giggles, pulling the blanket higher up her chest, Roger tucking it under her chin and wrapping his arms tighter around her weak body. Roger scowls and nods at Mark, saying, with a little more that a tint of humor in his voice, "Zoom in on the one and only Marky of Suburbia, who won't put down that damn camera to play a damn board game and who insisted on listening to stupid Neil Young tonight." _

"_Ha," Mark manages dryly. "Here, I'll put it on the tripod and hop onto Collins' team of one."_

_The picture shifts wildly as Mark affixes the camera to its stand, the Neil Young tape coming to an end with a jarring click. Plaid-coated, striped-scarved Mark appears in the frame, hopping over Collins to the tape player, which sits outside of the circle of heat and bad food, and flips the tape._

_Mark seats himself by Collins, who wears the same coat he has possessed for years, but this time with the word "Angel" lovingly sewn into the collar, worth twice its value, but not due to the fact that he has paid for it twice. Collins throws a friendly arm around Mark and says smugly, "We're winning, man. Those bitches," he says, dropping his voice conspiratorially, "are going down. Hard." _

_Mark laughs. Roger smiles half-heartedly. Mimi yawns. Maureen watches, clutching a bottle of cheap beer. Joanne's cell phone rings. She walks into Mark's bedroom to answer it._

_The bridge of a Neil Young song wails, breaking a sleepy silence. "At least he can play, Marky. I'll give you that. Even though all his intros sound the same." They mumble in agreement and Roger dodges Mark's swat at his head._

"_Don't call me that, man. Just don't." Roger punches him in the arm._

_Joanne's voice sounds from the direction of Mark's room. "I've got to go, guys. Steve's said there's been some kind of break through in the Montclair case. See you tomorrow." There is a chorus of byes and the sound of the loft door closing, then Joanne's voice again. "Mark, your reel's still playing. Don't waste a light bulb." The door slams. _

_In the frame, Mark stands, casting a shadow onto the projector screen, blocking out Mimi and Roger's film selves. _

_Maureen latches onto Mark's leg as he ambles past, shaking her off his leg as he steps out of the shot. "You're drunk, Maureen. Go to bed so you don't do anything. . . regrettable."_

"_Pookie," she slurs, "You sound just like Joanne when she has an early meeting and doesn't want to make l—"_

_The sound of plastic hitting wood floor reverberates throughout the loft. Mark appears in the picture, blushing, and picks up the empty film reel he has dropped. Collins picks Maureen up and lays her on the couch. Roger glances down at Mimi and shifts her so he can hold her sleeping form in his lap._

"_She's just tired, a lot," he says, fingering her hair worriedly._

_The other boys nod._

"_Finally! New song!" Roger exclaims, face lighting up. "_The Police_ after this one, Mark. It's only fair," he winks at Mark. "We can have a rockin'-out boys night-in."_

_Collins smiles. "How juvenile."_

"_Whatever."_

_Mark fumbles with his projector again. Mimi and Roger are on the screen again, before the makeshift projector screen turns black. "Fuck!" He throws his scarf on the ground angrily. "The bulb blew," he explains quietly, sidling back into the frame and collapsing besides Collins, directly across from Mimi and Roger . "Can't afford a new one for a while now, but I'll make do." _

"_Right."_

"_You doing okay, bro?" Collins asks. _

"_Yeah, I just, y'know, think a lot and it doesn't always. . ." He trails off._

"_Right," they say, laughing._

_They sit in an unusual silence, listening to the song pushing its way into the foreground of the scene._

I caught you knocking at my cellar door, I love you, baby, can I have some more, Oh, the damage done.

I hit the city and I lost my band, I watched a needle take another man, Gone, gone, the damage done.

I sing the song because I love The Man, I know that some of you don't understand, Milk blood, to keep from running out.

I've seen the needle and the damage done, A little part of it in everyone, But every junkie's like the setting sun.

Seen the needle and the damage done, A little part of it in everyone, And every junkie's like the setting sun.

_Final notes fade, leaving the loft completely silent. Collins rises and stops the tape. Mark's attention is on Roger and Mimi, but his eyes remain slightly unfocused. Roger pulls Mimi closer to him, running a hand through her hair, caressing her hand lovingly. Collins' seats himself again._

_Two beepers sound. Mark shakes his head and gets up, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with two glasses of water. He hands them to Roger. "Take your AZT, Rog. Make sure Mimi does, too. Wake her up if you have to. Remember yours, too, Col." He disappears from sight, reappearing with his scarf around his neck and a dirty toboggan with Brown printed on the front of it. "I'm going out to film. See you guys later."_

_The loft door opens and shuts, a light thump is heard from outside the door, a muttered curse, and then someone stumbling down the stairs._

_Roger takes the sleeping Mimi to his bedroom. Collins sighs, leaning his head back against a chair, apparently thinking._

"_I guess game night is over, huh?" Roger says, returning and throwing an arm around Collins. _

"_Yeah, guess it is, man. Guess it is." He returns the embrace_

"_Fuck Mark and his hidden sentimentality."_

"_Hm."_

_Roger hears the video camera whirring on the tripod in front of them. "Mark forgot his camera."_

"_Mark never forgets his camera. He's just become preoccupied and he'll be back in five—"_

"—_four, three," they say together, "two, one." _

_Mark stumbles in. "Forgot my camera," he mutters, not meeting there eyes, and popping the camera off the tripod._

"_Have fun," Roger murmurs, standing and engulfing Mark's small body in a hug. The view darkens as bodies are pressed against each other._

"_Thanks," Mark says, as they break apart, rubbing his small shoulders stiffly. There's a flash of Mark as he stretches his arms to the sides. With a small, timid wave, and an even smaller, watery smile, he exits the loft. _

_Mark's feet pound down the stairs and he runs into the street, shoes blurring on the screen. He stumbles into an alley way a block from the loft, and sits on a crate. _

"_Zoom in on The Man," he says quietly, panning left out of the alleyway towards a heavily coated man chatting up a young, distraught-looking woman, persuading her to "C'mon, just one hit, baby, and you'll feel like you're in heaven."_

_He turns the camera on himself "Close on Mark," He says, messy blond hair peeking from beneath a hat, and glasses, reflecting light from a streetlamp, hiding wet eyes, "Who lets his own emotional problems get the best of him, just when he thinks he can handle anything. Roger's been right all along. Mark does detach from feeling alive, but he knows it's so much easier that way." He looks straight into the camera, a single tear falling from one eye, before the screen goes black._

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I stay completely still, remembering. It seems so odd that I could have forgotten that. I wonder how many memories are archived somewhere in my mind, too long ago to be remembered. The tears are running down my face, partly in humor at my own naïveté and partly from just pure remembering. It hurts so much sometimes, but I'm finally learning to feel.

Damn, Jason's here. I stand up quickly, calling for him to come in and hurriedly wipe the tears from my face, trying to dry my cheeks on my shirt—one of the striped sweaters I've had since I moved in with Roger a little over ten years ago. I stumble over a rug as I rush to my desk, throwing my scarf (yes, the same one I've had since Brown) around my neck, and turning to face my eager student.

"Hey," I hear myself say, straightening my sweater, "What'd you want to talk about, Jason?"

He adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses nervously. I laugh internally; it must be a tick all eyeglass-wearing filmmakers share. "Well, I needed to talk about my last paper. I had a few questions. I mean, if you don't mind, Dr. Cohen." He tightens his grip on his digital video camera.

"Yeah, no problem, Jason," I walk towards the chairs arranged around the discussion table. "And, you can call me Mark. My father's a doctor, not me. I'm a filmmaker."

He smiles at me, "Thank you, Mark." He sighs, staring out the window.

I know I'm frowning. And I know I look silly when I frown too hard. Mimi and Angel always told me that, and now Maureen reminds me for them. "Anything else you need to talk about?"

Jason turns toward me, "Oh, no, of course not."

I raise my eyebrows, something Joanne picks on me for.

"Ah, no, it's just my parents and art school and photography supplies and my friend's in the hospital with pneumonia and dru— Well, yeah," He exhales deeply, raising his eyes shyly, realizing what he's just said.

"So, nothing's wrong, then?" I smirk. He's really a decent person. "Why don't you stay after class and we'll talk a bit."

He nods.

I stand up, moving towards the projector to set it up again, carefully turning the power off first so as not to shake the bulb too violently. "So, how about that paper?"

He smiles, walking up to me. "Well," he begins. The end of the film flicks me in the nose and he suppresses his amusement and continues as I blink rapidly. Ouch. "Well, you see, Mark, I. . ."

I listen and nod and kindly critique. I realize how very much nineteen-year-old Jason is like me, as seventeen-year-old Mark, during my first year at college. All he needs is a little encouragement, a lot of confidence, good friends, and he could make it in the world. Or at least be happy, maybe not prosper, but be happy. I smile fondly.

One by one, the rest of the class wanders in and take seats around the table, organizing supplies, straightening papers. I clap Jason on the shoulder as he walks to a chair. I turn around to grab my camera and am faced with that damn boom box. I give it a kick, not hard enough to break it (since I _still_ can't comfortably afford to buy a new one) but enough to satiate my returning bad mood.

I grab my camera, turn it on and mutter, "March twenty-first, 9:17 AM, Eastern Standard Time. The class is here and we're ready to roll. Time to face my own insecurities in front of a full classroom. No problem, right?" I turn the camera on myself and smile. "Right." I turn the power off so I won't waste the juice in my battery.

I roll the projector to the front of the room and pull the _decent_ screen down in front of the blackboard. Feeding the film back into the projector. I turn toward the expectant class and smile widely.

"Right. Today we're going to watch clips. Any random clip you have with you. Edited, unedited, anything. After each viewing, we'll offer the person advice on how to improve the film and on how to write a descriptive essay or an emotional passage to accompany it. This is a time to delve into your own emotions." I look at the class, gauging their reactions. They look fairly excited. We haven't done anything this impromptu since the first day of class. That's a long story. . . "Well, we'll start with me. I just found this reel this morning. I shot it exactly seven years ago and hadn't watched it until a few minutes ago. So, here goes."

I turn on the projector and a kid near the wall flips the light switch. My voice fills the room and my friends fill the screen, and it feels so right to be showing them this, right here and right now. All the emotions precariously stacked behind the events of the week start to waver unsteadily, and I open the window, letting the abnormally cold March air rush in and hit me in the face. It shocks me into myself. I blink. I let out a single, solitary, wailing sob, grabbing my coffee cup and raising it into the air outside the window. "To Roger!" I yell out the window, dropping the mug, satisfied by the resounding crack as it hits the pavement below.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I turn back towards the class; they're still engrossed in my new-found reel and haven't even notice my small breakdown. Except for Jason. He's watching me. I smile at him and gesture toward the projector. He redirects his attention. Great, now _I_ have a lot of explaining to do. I dry my tears again for the second time that morning. I rewrap my scarf, adjust my glasses, grab a yellow legal pad, my grade book, and the camera. Everything's back to normal. I settle down with my students, still not quite prepared for a day of self-exploration, and hope everything will work out in the end.

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A/N: Comments, Questions, Constructive Criticism? Feel free to leave a review.


	2. April 25, 12:54 AM, EST

Warnings: A certain angry character's dirty mouth.

Special Thanks: To "Rog" again for fixing some typos and punctuation errors.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that is not mine.

A/N: The last paragraph of Ch. 1 has been edited. Please re-read if you have previously read Ch. 1. Also, excuse the lack of ruler lines. They weren't working for me at the time of this post. Hope it is not too distracting.

"April 25, 12:54 AM Eastern Standard Time. Grading finished." I lay down my red marking pen and the last paper and pull my pillow closer to my body, smothering my face in it and holding back a bout of sniffles and sobs and other self degrading actions. I'm cold, but I don't feel like getting off the bed right now to find a t-shirt. I'll have to remember not to lay in my room with only boxers on next April. Unpredictable New York temperatures. . .

You know, I realized this afternoon that funerals aren't for the deceased. They don't give a fuck once their gone, right? Once the cold, mean world has stopped trying to pry into their hearts. Stopped trying to rip into them and change who they are at the very core of themselves. No, funerals aren't for the dead. We only honor their memory in a hope that they won't be forgotten; that they can keep living after their gone. _I_ sure as hell don't want to be forgotten.

Funerals _are_ for the survivors, though. The sole purpose of a funeral is to let the lonely survivors feel like they've paid some sort of fucking tribute to the deceased when really there is absolutely nothing to be said that can make the situation even in the least bit graceful.

You feel as if nothing can be said to do the dead one justice. You've been through hell and back together—you smiled on the way in and you were sure as hell smiling on the way back out—yet you can't manage to think of a few meager words to say so your friend can look good at his goodbye party. There's absolutely nothing left you can do, right?

So when you walk to the front of that church, determined to make these people watching you remember your best friend, all you can do is squeak out a few fucking measly words, run your hand through your hair, adjust your glasses, laugh nervously while choking on your tears, and run back to your seat.

The whole time you know some of these people are already forgetting him. They're wondering what they'll have for dinner or how they'll pay the bills and the rent. Who's putting the kids in bed tonight, John?

They're feeling bad that you've had to suffer through this and what a shame it is that he had to die. But really, he's just a number to them. He's just another statistic, and you hate statistics. You've seen so many fucking statistics on so many fucking health pamphlets that you're about ready to die yourself, buried under the overwhelming odds of survival. That wouldn't be so bad, right? But the world needs you; at least that's what he said.

You want to resent them for their lack of care, their apparent apathy and false sympathy, but you can't. Though you wish they would realize just how much the world lost when he breathed his last, you know they have lives, just like you do. They have best friends, too, and jobs and children and lunch meetings at one o'clock. So you try to resent them for their meager concerns and eager plans, but you can't.

You're feeling so damn lost; all you can do is sit on your ass and stare out the window. But at the same time you're feeling so much that you can't even express it. You're feeling so passionate about him and his life and all the other lives that you weren't able to do justice, that you can barely contain it. Your camera isn't solving this problem very quickly, so you just sit there and stare, occasionally shaking with anger and exchanging empty words with your other friend and roommate, Collins. Now your _only_ friend and roommate.

Two weeks later, your friend will reschedule your college class unbeknownst to yourself and haul you off your ass to your classroom, where a group of students will be sitting, eager to hear the excuse for the five missed classes and eager for a new assignment. So now you have to tell them you've lost someone close to you, someone whom had a relapse after the HIV was nearly undetectable in his body, and you've crashed into the ground. You tell them you'll be okay, though, and let's see those edited clips and essays. Right now, group presentation.

Everyone fumbles through their backpacks and satchels, pulling out video cameras, compact disks, papers, note cards, and pens. And then the presentation begins. They suggest you go first, so you fumble excuses and eventually end up spitting out an answer about your lack of preparation. Some of them give you sympathetic looks, so you change your mind and stand up anyhow.

"It's not edited. The film, I mean," you hear yourself splutter, "But I did finish an accompaniment—though I didn't proof read it either, so it's kinda bad—before I had my little nervous breakdown." You laugh uneasily, and a few of the students laugh with you, but you know they're just being polite. A kid with wire-rimed glasses—Jason—is smiling at your encouragingly. You damn well don't feel like the teacher right now; your life's out of your damn hands. But that's what you wanted, right? La Vie Boheme? You viva-ed it, man. It's all yours now.

"Well, here goes. It's just under the requirement I gave you, so. . . Sorry. Don't run off to your parents saying what a god-awful teacher I am. I delved into my emotions, and this is all I came out with." You take a shaking breath, flash a watery smile, and begin.

_It was so cold that night, that when I dropped my glasses I though they were surely bound to shatter to a thousand pieces on the floor, taking my monetary income, food, bills, rent, AZT, DDT, Prozac, various other medications, and prospective grad school education with them._

_It's beyond me why we didn't stay with Joanne and Maureen that night. God knows they have heat; hell, even carpeting and a cappuccino machine. Mimi could have used heat, but she was resistant to any handouts. It's also beyond me why we did not force her to live with Joanne and Maureen, you can't call anything from friends a handout, but Mimi had some twisted ideas concerning independence. As did I, but I was not the Boho on the edge of the brink of death, so it was not my sick ideologies that mattered._

_God only knows why I flipped out after "The Needle and the Damage Done." Perhaps the realization that it really was the damage done that was playing out in my life that I could not handle. It was drugs that pulled Roger, Collins, and I apart and the aftermath that kept us—not to mention the family—together. "A little part of it in everyone. . ." Neil Young might as well have been singing that to all of us at a Life Support meeting. It was in everyone, wasn't it? The drugs, the sex, the art, the AIDS. Seemed like everyone had AIDS. But this was the life I wanted, right? Bohemia?_

_I loved the Village, I still do. I loved my lifestyle and my friends, but as they started slowly disappearing, my love for the village started waning. Two years after Mimi died, Collins, Roger, and I got a place on the Bowery, on the East and West-slash-Greenwich Village border. Closer to NYU, convenient for both Collins (as a teacher) and myself (as a new student). Rog started teaching music lessons out of our little apartment, and everything was good._

_But back to 1991. Why the hell I even filmed, the Man, I don't know. I guess I wanted to have the object of my resentment on film, so someday I could pull out the old dart board Roger and I used to obsess over (even though Collins smeared us every time) and pin his picture to the middle. Perfect bullseye. But still, I could have gotten myself killed that night. In fact, if I weren't so adept at hiding, I probably would have._

_But now, that's all in the past, right? I have no regrets. "Forget regret, or life is yours to miss." I would go back to twenty-one at any time, and do it all over again. Drugs, death, HIV and all. That was the happiest—well, in all honesty that's probably not the word. That was the most satisfying time of my life. No corporate America (well, maybe a little), no laws (well, a few), just me, my friends, my art, and rent. _

_When I got back to the loft early that morning, I fell asleep on the floor by the warmth of the illegal stove and awoke to the smell of fried bacon, eggs and toast, and the sound of someone's melodic voice. Mimi and Collins were cooking (with Joanne's food, I might add) while Roger sat on the counter singing to them, making the most ridiculous faces and flailing his arms overdramatically. _

_I hopped up, and sleepily sauntered over to them. Mimi smiled at me, "Morning, Mark!" She said cheerfully._

"_Morning, Meems." I answered, leaning against the counter across from Collins._

_Roger stopped singing and dangled a piece of bacon in my face. "Want some pig, Mark?" He swung it dangerously close to my nose and I recoiled slightly._

"_Ew, gross, Rog, no!" We all burst out laughing, and Mimi playfully smacked Roger on the cheek before feeding him a piece of bacon sensuously. _

_Yes, everything was back to normal, and it all worked out in the end._

They stare at you for a moment, before the kid with wire-rimmed glasses starts clapping and the whole class joins them, along with your friend who gives a hearty "That's my boy!" in the middle of it all. Eventually the next person reads theirs and you are nearly blown away by all of their creations, especially Jason's. As they are filing out at the end of class, you get a few hugs and well wishes, and Jason asks you and Collins to lunch to meet his friend that was previously in the hospital. You'd almost forgotten about his problems, and try to make it up to him.

But all of that feel-good stuff doesn't change the fact that in the end, it's just me and Collins and the girls up town. So I should just try to plow on, drudge through life, and hide in my work until it all becomes normal again.

So, no, I'm not suicidal or depressed. I'm just coping. It's been one month since the funeral and a fucking thirty-five days since his death. I've finally decided to take what he told me to heart.

"_Go do things, after I'm gone. Make another film, whatever it fucking takes. But Mark, and excuuuuse the sentimentality, you have so much more to do for the world. I just know it, okay? So get the hell out there and do it."_

So I unbury my face from my pillow and neatly stack the last of my students' red-marked papers into the grade book. Sliding off of my bed, I walk to a drawer, pull out a long-sleeved t-shirt reading

"ACT-UP New York" and yank it over my head, catching my glasses before they hit the ground. Crossing to my closet I pull box after box out and drag them into the living room.

Collins looks up at me questioningly from his spot in the pink wing backed chair by the radio, but continues reading and highlighting some book he's teaching. I wheel my projector and editing equipment out of a coat closet and set them up. Flopping onto the couch with one leg hanging off the armrest, I turn on my camera.

Collins looks at me from across the milk crate, duct tape, and plywood coffee table we painted way back in 1990. It was the summer before Angel died. We'd all painted our names on it and decorated the whole "table" with paint and newspaper and glue on jewels, laughing and joking the whole time. We all ended up very painty after that. "Mark, you won't get a story from the ceiling."

I roll my eyes and sit up, facing and focusing the camera on him. "I was contemplating the meaning of life, Tom. Jeez."

He laughs and stretches as he stands from his chair. "I'm making breakfast, do you want some?"

"It's 1:27 AM, Collins. You're fucking kidding, right?" He winks at me and heads into the kitchen. "Okay, then yeah, if we have toast or tea or something."

"No problem," he calls. Several seconds elapse before he sticks his head around the corner again. "Hey, Mark, man?"

"Yeah?"

"Keep your chin up." Before I have a chance to respond caustically, he adds, "Nice t-shirt, by the way."

I laugh, "Thanks, Collins." He disappears again.

I turn off the camera and set it up on the tripod, facing the couch at my eye level. I turn it back on and hop onto the couch.

"April 25, 1:31 AM, Eastern Standard Time. Mark's learning to cope while making another FF, or fucking film as they were once so kindly referred to back in the Boho Days. However this time, the film was suggested and the idea also inadvertently supplied by one Roger Davis, who I never thought would ever encourage me to pick up my camera, let alone set me up with a documentary idea. Well, here goes. . ."

I turned off the camera and headed into the kitchen to help Collins. I crack an egg on the side of a cup and am in the process of fishing out a stray shell with a fork when Collins interrupts me.

"Hey, I'm proud of you, man."

"Why?"

"Because Mark Cohen Version 1998 does have emotions. That was right sweet in there," he nods towards the living room, grinning cheekily.

"Oh, shut up, Collins!" I exclaim, jumping up and grabbing the knit beanie from the top of his head, dangling it over the water boiling for tea.

"Hey!" He shouts. A wrestling match ensues, and I'm pretty damn sure I know who's going to win. He tickles me and I fall to the floor in a fit of involuntary laughter and release his hat.

Collins pulls it back on his head and helps me up, ruffling my hair. "There," he says, "Everything's back to normal."

And it'll all work out in the end.

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A/N: Comments, Questions, Constructive Criticism? Drop a review. Also, I'd like to know if you'd like to read more stories about Mark, Collins, and Roger's lives after Rent (based in the same universe, if you will). Let me know. :)


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